


The Best Part of Camping

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Established Relationship, Happy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek's injuries mean he and Stiles can't get away for the weekend, Stiles takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Part of Camping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DevilDoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/gifts).



> For devildoll, on the occasion of needing some healing stories. With grateful thanks to dogeared for her beta!

This one hurts. Derek is used to pain, used to things needing time to heal, used to far worse than a couple of gashes across his side and another running the length of his calf. But there was enough wolfsbane dusted across the witch's blade to mean that these cuts hurt beyond the usual, will take hours to heal instead of minutes. He's sulking, and he knows it.

"So we'll go camping next weekend," Stiles says as he helps Derek across to the couch. "Steady," he adds as Derek sits down.

Derek huffs grumpily, eases himself into a more comfortable position. "I wanted to go _this_ weekend," he says.

"So did I, big guy," Stiles offers, hovering as if he's going to do something awful, like plump a pillow. "But you'd be miserable. _I'd_ be miserable. No one wants that."

Derek sighs. "It was going to be fun."

Stiles sits down on the couch beside him, reaches to curl his hand around the back of Derek's neck. Derek wishes that touch didn't feel so good – he has way more sulking to do, and it's difficult when Stiles is being patient and understanding and sitting close and smelling only of his own magic, not the kind the witch brought to town. "Face it," Stiles says. "The best part of camping was going to be me, and you still have that."

Derek resolutely tries not to smile. "What if my favorite part was going to be s'mores? Or curling up in the tent? Or . . . "

Stiles rubs his fingers up and through the back of Derek's hair, making him shiver. "We can still have those things."

"There is so much wrong with that statement. "

"What?"

"First, we're inside. Second, you don't know how to put up a tent – "

"Do too."

Derek raises one eyebrow in what he knows is a perfect expression of disbelief.

"Don't believe me?" Stiles says. "Okay. Okay. I'll meet your challenge." He gets up and strips off his hoodie, throwing it in a chair. "You just watch me."

Derek groans feebly. "This is going to be excruciating," he tells Stiles' back. 

Stiles crosses the loft to the kitchen as if he doesn't hear him, gets a hand under the seat of the two of the island stools and brings them back to the couch. "Hush," he says, and he's wearing his determined face, which Derek has always found more attractive than he should. It's a good 80% of the reason they ended up together in the first place – that face and Derek's relief that Stiles didn't die any one of a dozen times. Derek rouses himself from that set of memories and squints at Stiles as he shifts the armchair. 

"What – "

Stiles holds up a finger.

Derek sighs again and settles back to watch.

Stiles is busy for some time, ferrying pillows and the duvet from the bed and spreading them out on the floor; going to the bathroom and bringing back a stash of first aid supplies; opening up Derek's closet and rooting around for blankets. Derek blames his slow uptake on the fact that he's still sluggishly bleeding and his thoughts are messed up from the wolfsbane, but still, it takes a surprisingly long time for him to realize that Stiles is building is a blanket fort.

"That's a blanket fort," he says to the expanse of blankets in front of him. There's a lump in the middle that has to be Stiles, and the lump moves toward him. Stiles sticks his head out and grins. 

"And they say you're not smart."

"Who says?" Derek asks.

"Figure of speech," Stiles says, eyes wide and innocent. "Just – come on in here. You need help?"

Derek looks at him.

"Course you don't, what am I saying." He holds up the roof of the fort, lets Derek ease himself down onto the duvet and inch across to where the pillows are heaped. Derek's gritting his teeth by the time he lies down – the deep cut across his side stings bitterly. "Okay?" asks Stiles, suddenly very close.

Derek looks up at him, at the messy fall of his hair, the streak of dirt along his jawbone, the slope of his shoulders and the pink of his mouth. "Yeah," he says, and means it, has to look away for a second so that the dumb stuff he wants to say doesn't come pouring out of his mouth and make things awkward for both of them.

Stiles leans down and noses into the hair right above Derek's ear. "You and I are having a conversation later," he murmurs before he pulls back. "But for now? We're getting this shirt off." He peels it away from Derek's side, all his movements careful and considered. "Think you can sit up a little?"

It takes some maneuvering, but they get off the shirt and Derek's pants both, and Stiles reciprocates when Derek grumbles that one of them shouldn't be clothed while the other one is mostly naked.

"Don't think I don't see your plan," Stiles says, muffled, as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. He emerges grinning. "It's a good plan, I like it."

Derek laughs.

Stiles bends to the task of cleaning up Derek's cuts, wiping them clean with antiseptic, murmuring a spell as his hands move gently over each gash. Derek hums appreciatively, feeling Stiles' magic as a soft warmth, dulling the pain he feels, chasing out other spells, letting him heal. He's happy, if groggy, by the time Stiles is done – a good, everywhere glow.

"You," says Stiles, lying down beside him and propping his head up on one hand, "look positively blissed-out."

Derek lifts a hand in response, cups Stiles' jaw and drags his thumb across Stiles' bottom lip. It's exhilarating to watch the reaction he gets – the flutter of Stiles' eyelashes as he closes his eyes and opens them again; the small hitch in his breathing. 

"Mmmm," Stiles says, tilting his head to press a kiss to the palm of Derek's hand.

"Come here," Derek murmurs, and Stiles raises both eyebrows, smiling, looking as though he might protest. "I'm injured," Derek presses, and Stiles looks away thoughtfully, then back again, mischief on his face.

"Just this once," Stiles says, and inches closer, leans in to brush his lips against Derek, a barely-there kiss.

"Tease," Derek says, running a hand up and down Stiles' arm.

"Certified," Stiles says with a smirk, but he's leaning back in again, a real kiss this time – closed lips, warm, and Derek feels himself go boneless beneath Stiles' touch. It's still terrifying, sometimes, to let himself go, to trust that Stiles won't sully this, twist it into something vicious and cruel like others before him. But Stiles is whispering, "hey, stay with me," against his lips, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Derek pushes up to nose against Stiles' cheek, presses a kiss beside his eye. "Kiss me like you mean it," Stiles murmurs, and Derek feels something spark brightly in his belly, rolls onto his good side and pulls Stiles closer, kisses him soft and wet, licks right into his mouth.

It's good, so good – the shudder that runs down Stiles' spine shivers up through Derek's hands, lighting him up. They kiss and kiss, exploring each other's mouths, letting their hands glance against each other's bodies, the only noise in the room the quiet cadence of their breathing, the slick sound of their lips. There's no urgency between them, no hint of desperation, just the slow, sweet pleasure of being together, of having the luxury of time and touch.

Their kisses slow after a while, steadying until their foreheads are touching and they're breathing the same air. Derek's eyes are still closed, the better to feel the touch of Stiles' hands against him, the pressure of Stiles' knee against his thigh. "So this is camping?" Derek asks eventually.

Stiles laughs, and Derek can feel the rumble of it through his fingertips. "It's definitely camping." He pulls away a little and Derek opens his eyes to watch him. "I can prove it." He wriggles away and lifts the edge of the fort, letting in a rush of cooler air. "I'll be right back."

Derek can hear him move about the loft, the sound of him rummaging in his backpack, tossing things onto the floor. He makes small, unconscious noises as he works – a soft "oof", a whispered, "aha!" – and then he's back at the edge of the fort, pushing his pillow and a sleeping bag inside, inching in on his knees behind it, arms full. Derek narrows his eyes. "What _is_ that?"

"A camping espresso maker," says Stiles, clearly thrilled with himself. "I mean, of course, right?" He sets his armful of belongings on top of the duvet, picks through the pile. "Flashlights. Very important. Matches." He tosses them to one side. "The makings for s'mores." Derek gets a glimpse of a bag of marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and two bars of chocolate. 

"How will we –"

"Candles," Stiles says, grinning, brandishing one in each hand.

"You packed candles?"

"What if the flashlights had died?"

"What if the wind blew out the candles?"

Stiles looks thoughtful. "Point." He looks down at his pile of booty. "I have beef jerky and granola bars," he says, "and four glowsticks."

Derek finds himself smiling. "Glowsticks."

"Our own personal rave," Stiles says, nodding. "Or, you know, mood lighting." He pushes everything to one corner of the fort and wrestles with the sleeping bag, unzipping one side and the very end, turning it into a blanket. "Most important thing, though," he says, crawling back over to Derek and shaking the sleeping bag out over them both. He grabs his pillow and sets it on top of the one he'd been using before, lies down and rubs his cheek against the cotton pillowcase. "Is this. Mmmmm."

Derek shakes his head. "You are ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm cozy and ridiculous," he says, and flips himself over, showing Derek his back. "Curl up," he says. "You can lie on your good side and . . . "

Derek closes the distance between them, presses his chest against Stiles' back, slips his arm around him, hand shifting to rest above Stiles' heart. He noses at the back of Stiles' neck. Again, the words he wants to say press up against his closed lips, and he swallows them down.

Stiles leans back against him a fraction more and sighs contentedly. Derek can already feel his heartbeat beginning to slow, his breathing evening out. 

"Stiles?"

"Mmmmm."

Derek swallows. "Thanks."

"No problem," Stiles says around a yawn. "Sleep. Let those cuts heal."

Derek closes his eyes and lets himself sink into warmth of their shared body heat, soothed by the steady _ka-thud_ of Stiles' heart beneath his palm.

_____

They make s'mores when they wake, and the candle works passably well as means to roast their marshmallows, anchored on a dinner plate by wax. "I believe," Stiles says, cheerfully setting his marshmallow on fire and blowing it out, "it's traditional to tell stories around a campfire."

Derek laughs softly. "Ghost stories?"

"Oh, hell, no," Stiles offers, smushing his marshmallow between two crackers. "I live those." He bites into his s'more, scattering crumbs all over the duvet. "I was thinking embarrassing childhood stories. College stories. Stories featuring baby animals."

"Baby animals?"

"Cute ones. Ducklings, bunnies, kittens."

Ends up Derek has no stories about baby animals, but plenty about college, and even a couple about his childhood that he can tell without his heart hurting too badly to finish. Stiles listens attentively, cracks up in all the right places, reaches out to wrap his long fingers around Derek's ankle when Derek falters in his telling, rubbing his thumb along the long edge of the bone, soothing. Stiles, in return, has no end of stories about his childhood, which takes shape in Derek's mind as a whirlwind of gangly limbs and a permanent state of injury, and Derek laughs until his sides ache, and he puts a hand to his cuts, finds them almost healed.

"Huh," he says, running his fingertips along the reddened skin that had once gaped open. Stiles crawls over and takes a look himself.

"Magic," Stiles says. "A little rest. Works every time. They still hurt?"

Derek nods. "A little. Different now. An ache."

Stiles bends to press a kiss to the temporary scars. "They'll be good by morning."

Derek watches his face, marveling at how self-assured Stiles has become, able to control and craft his magic. It's such a far cry from the early days, Stiles still in high school and Deaton trying to teach him to unlock the spark inside him, resulting, more often than not, in unpredictable spills of power. Derek remembers the scorched walls, the hole Stiles blasted clean through a tree, the itching when he messed up the vowels in a cleansing spell and gave everyone welts instead. "You remember when you singed off your eyebrow?" he asks.

Stiles blinks at the change in conversation. "I do." He rubs the re-grown eyebrow ruefully. "You're lucky you ducked. God knows what would have happened if that spell had hit your beard."

Derek grins at him, pulls Stiles in close and kisses him. "I love you," he says without thinking, and then freezes, watching Stiles' face, which is going through several contortions before it settles on a big, wide smile.

"You love me," Stiles says, and the smile is now a grin.

Derek can feel his cheeks heat. 

"Youuuuuu love me," Stiles sing-songs. He smacks a kiss to Derek's cheek. "Good thing I love you, too."

If it's possible, Derek freezes even further, not daring to move so much as an eyelash in case he heard wrong. 

"God, you're a dork," Stiles says, which is rich coming from Stiles. "It's okay. Words were said and the sky has not fallen."

Derek lets out a shaky breath. "Okay."

"Okay?" Stiles rubs a thumb over Derek's cheekbone, studying him and chewing on the inside of his lip. "Hang on," he says after a moment. "Who did you say that to last?"

Derek looks away, down their bodies to where the sleeping bag is twisted in a heap.

"Jennifer?" asks Stiles.

Derek nods.

"Well, that would scar anyone," Stiles says gently, and leans in to kiss Derek again, distracting him from anything he could say in return. It's a good kiss – Derek would suspect magic in the mix if not for the fact that he trusts Stiles to never spell him into anything – and Derek's chest unclenches, his hand twitching at Stiles' side, and he moans very softly into Stiles' mouth. Stiles pulls away a little, licking his swollen bottom lip. "How about we make this memorable?" he says.

"I – think it's pretty . . . you know . . ." Derek says, his vocabulary still mostly on a panicked vacation.

"Let me blow you," Stiles says, smiling, matter-of-fact, and Derek swallows hard. 

"Okay," he says, his cock already half-hard. "Yeah, that'd be . . . "

"Excellent," Stiles says, and begins to work his way slowly down Derek's neck, licking and kissing and nipping along the way. Derek's breathing accelerates – it's always a disconcerting thrill to turn his body over to Stiles this way, to let him touch and kiss and lick where he pleases. Derek kisses back hungrily when Stiles lifts his head to kiss him on the mouth, and Stiles hums, pleased, at the back of his throat. "I got you," Stiles says, hand skimming down Derek's uninjured side. "Let me." And Derek lets his head thud back against the pillows, closes his eyes.

Every feeling's that little bit more intense without sight to prepare him for where Stiles will move. Stiles brushes a kiss to one nipple, then the other, uses his thumb to rub circles until Derek's whimpering from it, and only then uses his mouth to tease him further, wet tongue curling around each one in turn. He trails kisses down Derek's sternum, dips his tongue into Derek's belly button, uses his teeth to graze the jut of Derek's hip. Derek's panting now, anticipating Stiles' mouth, but Stiles shifts further down his body, pushes his thighs apart and kisses just to the inside of each knee. He works higher and higher, nipping at the skin, soothing it with his tongue, and Derek's hard and desperate by the time Stiles hooks his fingers in the elastic of his shorts, pulls them off and away, and blows softly across the wet tip of Derek's cock. Derek's hips come up off the ground an uncoordinated jerk.

"Hey," says Stiles. "Look at me." And Derek does, watches as Stiles takes him into his mouth, his gaze never leaving Derek's for a moment. It's overwhelming, the slick heat of Stiles' tongue, the pull of his lips, and Derek's hips twitch again, which has Stiles hum, laughing a little, which makes Derek groan.

"C'mon," he says, as Stiles throws an arm across his hips. "Please. . . "

Stiles falls to the job of slowly driving Derek out of his mind, wetting Derek's cock with his tongue and working him with his hand where his mouth won't reach. He whimpers a little as he sucks, as if this is the best thing he could possibly be doing, as if there's nowhere he'd rather be than sprawled between Derek's legs, dragging his pointed tongue up the vein on the underside of Derek's cock. Derek covers his face with one hand, turns his head into the pillow, rocks his hips as much as he can beneath Stiles' implacable hold. Every time Stiles takes him into his mouth, his breath hitches – he gasps, each one a little louder than before, bursts of air laced with pure pleasure as Stiles sucks him steadily, noisily, happily. Derek feels the effects of it in each of his limbs – a steady shaking, a shudder of pleasure – and heat licks at the base of his spine, grows hot and heavy low in his belly. And as Stiles twists his tongue around the head of Derek's cock Derek comes, Stiles sucking him back into the heat of his mouth.

He whimpers when the heat, the pressure, is too much, and looks down at Stiles, breathing hard. Stiles is wiping come from his mouth, looks debauched and pleased with himself, and Derek can see he's gently rocking his against the floor. "Come here," Derek says, still reeling from the shocks of pleasure running through his limbs, determined to make Stiles feel good too. Stiles kicks his way out of his underwear, flops down beside him, leans in to kiss him, pushy and eager, and Derek groans, his fingers curling into Stiles' hair. "Let me," Derek says, and licks his own hand, reaches down between them and wraps his fingers around Stiles' cock. He's wet already, impossibly warm, and he presses his forehead against Derek's shoulder, watching the shift and twist of Derek's fingers.

"Yeah," Stiles says, a shudder rippling through him, "not long . . . "

Derek knows just how he likes this, knows the pressure he loves, the graze of Derek's thumb across his head, the pauses that drive him wild when Derek rolls his balls in his hand, presses a finger behind them. It's not long before he's breathing a mantra of "please, please," against Derek's skin, and Derek speeds up his strokes, feeling Stiles tense against him. "Oh, god," Stiles manages, and then his hips jerk and he's spilling across Derek's hand and hip, making tiny, beautiful, pained sounds until he bats Derek's hand away and slumps onto his back. "Broken" he pants.

Derek grins and finds Stiles' hand, twists their fingers together. "Hmmm" he manages, closing his eyes for a second, giving his heart a chance to steady itself.

As sweat on Derek's skin begins to cool, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, Stiles groans and sits up just enough to reach for his shorts and wipe them both off. He pulls the sleeping bag back over them both and lies down again with a pleased little "hmmph." Derek finds his hand again, links their fingers.

"What else would you have done while we were camping?" Stiles asks.

"Hiked," Derek says. "Made you dinner in a frying pan."

"You'd have loved my espresso maker, admit it."

Derek turns onto his side, smiling. He feels so deeply, stupidly happy, lying inside a blanket fort, talking about a camping trip they didn't take. "Maybe I would."

"Next weekend," Stiles says. "Next weekend we'll go and sing songs around a fire."

"You sing?" Derek asks. "I'm just asking, because the last time you croaked along to music I . . . "

Stiles looks at him, mouth agape, feigning being wounded. "I sing plenty good enough for your campfire, Hale. I Kum ba yah like you would not believe."

Derek snorts softly. "You'll sing, I'll . . . what? Whittle something?"

"Can you whittle with your claws?" Stiles asks thoughtfully.

"Never tried."

"You should do it for knowledge," Stiles says. "For the greater good. A new entry in the bestiary. North American werewolves are known to whittle . . . " 

"Baseball bats."

"Tiny, tiny baseball bats," Stiles agrees. He rolls onto his side and smiles at Derek. "You okay?"

And Derek thinks about all of it – the witch; the fight in the woods; his disappointment about the weekend; Stiles' blanket fort project; saying what he'd been to scared to say for weeks; hearing it said back to him. "I'm good," he says, watching Stiles watch him fondly. "I'm really good."


End file.
